Musings In December
by Saudade Florentina
Summary: An eventual 100 chapter drabble series featuring our beloved detective and other people from both films.
1. Murder

"How many more will fall until you are satisfied?"

The Professor spun on his heel, his demeanor calm. "It is not a question of how many, Mr. Holmes, but whom." He walked over to the picture, Holmes' beloved picture of the woman, and picked it up. "My my, what a waste."

Holmes tensed, trying his best not to betray any of the emotions he felt over the loss of the only woman he ever truly loved.

"It's a shame, really," he continued, putting the picture down, "that you failed to confirm that there was even a body to prove that she had perished." The Professor strolled towards the door, donning his coat and hat. "No matter, there won't be one after tomorrow."

He relished in the look of terror and rage that flashed across Holmes' face.

"Have a good day, Mr. Holmes."


	2. Nightmare

Cold parted lips. A light sheen of sweat gracing an all-too-pale face. Vacant eyes staring up at the ornate ceiling, dim and unseeing.

He ran to her, no, raced to her side as if in a futile race against time, screaming her name and hoping she could still be saved. But every step that should have lead him closer only pushed her farther away from his sight. He reached out in desperation, crying out...

"Sherlock!"

He awoke with a jolt, sitting up on his bed and scanning his surrondings, wild-eyed and gasping.

"Shh... it's all right, darling," the woman at his side cooed and began to massage his shoulders. "I'm right here."


	3. Grief

She remembered that she had finally slept through a whole night, that her cough was finally subsiding, and that she would head to London later that day.

She remembered that it was raining.

She heard of the news in passing, while lunching by the window of a streetside Parisian café.

"...what a shame that the man had to perish as well," said a lady to another as they walked along the sidewalk, parasols shielding their dainty faces from the light drizzle of rain.

"Indeed," the other replied. "It must be a terrifying sensation, falling off of a waterfall. Don't you think so?"

"Yes," agreed the other. "What will the world do without the great Sherlock Holmes?"

That was the second time she had crumpled to the floor after a cup of tea.


	4. Loss

**Author's Note: **Many apologies for having this story out a day late x.x** And thank you for reviewing/favoriting/subscribing to my drabble if you have :) *gives out virtual cookies***

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **

The doctor's leg smarted with every step while he treaded through the snowy path leading to the bench.

"Marvelous day we're having, isn't it," he said, sitting down and admiring the expanse of the park.

A wisp of frosty air bit at his skin.

"You're right. Too cold."

He placed his walking stick on the bench and dusted the snow off of his coat.

"Mary sends her regards, as always."

Another blast of air rattles the trees, along with the flowers grasped in Watson's hand.

The doctor sighed, and rises from his bench.

"You would have called me sentimental for doing this, but," Watson laid the flowers next to the headstone.

"Happy Birthday, Holmes."


	5. Late Nights

**Hello! First off, many apologies for not updating in many many months x.x I've recently found quite a few of these half-finished drabble files gathering cobwebs in this laptop of mine... that will hopefully be posted in a quick and consistent manner this time around. (As soon as I get to finishing them) :)**

His mind played tricks on him.

He would sit there, in the dark, the candlelight flickering as he strummed his violin. It did not matter if he was on the floor, or sprawled across the settee with Morpheus or sleep beginning to tug him into unconsciousness.

He would see her, always.

Pale, as pale as a porcelain doll and that devilish smile upon her face.

He would reach out, and she would be gone.

He still played his violin during the quiet hours -and when he hit those special notes, sometimes he could hear her sing, her melody interweaving with his. He would stop, and the voice would be gone.

Though he could never admit it, never allow himself to _feel_, it tore him to pieces, knowing that all he craved for was a mere illusion.

And yet he continued to strum his violin.


	6. Negotiate

**Happy January (not December x.x) Everyone! Oh lordy... -hides- **

**Reviews make me happy :)**

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **

"Tell me Ms. Adler, did you enjoy the little game we played?"

He cocked the pistol in her direction, pulling back the safety guard ever so slightly.

"-Because I fear it is about to end very soon."

She stood in front of Sherlock, even though Moran had his own pistol trained on him.

Her mind was reeling, scrambling to find an alternative, a solution, anything but this...

A smile blossomed across her face. "James, darling," she walked with swaying hips, "le-"

"Do not play coy with me! I've had enough of your excuses."

She stopped.

"I am not here to give you an excuse. However," she reached into her sleeve, extracting a single, delicate vial.

"You need this as much as I do," she said, her voice dripping with conviction. "And if you hurt him, I will smash it on the floor."


	7. Threat

**I'm on a roll~**

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **

The Professor's eyes emenated subdued fury.

"Where did you find that?" he choked out.

"That is none of your concern," Irene replied, relishing in her new position of power.

Sherlock watched her with unease and Moran could not decide who to keep his aim trained on.

"Come now, would you really have me believe that you would give up your only chance of being cured for _him_? You made a similiar mistake once before, and I can assure you that this time the consequences of your decision will be much more permanent."


	8. Weak

**Hiya. I'm starting to get the hang of this, which means I might turn some of these future prompts into longer one-shots ;)**

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **

Irene paused for a moment, taking in the weight of his words. Escaping death at the hands of the most dangerous man in Europe was quite an admirable feat, but to escape again under these circumstances? The smooth glass vial in her hand started to feel as heavy as the decision she had to make.

But when did Moriarty ever play fair.

She leveled her gaze up to her old employer's ashen face. His eyes looked hollow, and dimmer than when she last remembered seeing him at the Savoy, which seemed so long ago. She looked back down at the pistol in his hand, and noted that it was shaking. _Weak._

"It feels terrible, doesn't it?" She finally said, looking back into his eyes, "to slowly waste away, to be unable to get up some mornings because you are just too _weak _to do so."


End file.
